


sentiment

by enoughiamagod



Series: Bondlock is Go [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), bondlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Bondlock, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, q is named quintin, there is non-graphic depictions of violence in chapter 3, updated warnings coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-30 20:10:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20452877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enoughiamagod/pseuds/enoughiamagod
Summary: Q goes missing and the aftermath





	1. when you move, I move

**Author's Note:**

> same note: reposting my work.
> 
> ALSO fair warning this will be a chaptered work. Chapter 3 has some non-graphic violence, a warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 has non-graphic depictions of violence. 
> 
> Also I'm not quite happy with these chapters but I don't know why.

John welcomes him in, because “family is family”, and though he may not like Mycroft much, or trust him past arm’s length, he is Sherlock’s brother. So in he comes, and he’s got a worried expression that disarms John in a way that rarely anything does. Sherlock’s out, and John’s sure Mycroft knows, and this, too, worries John, because Mycroft only refuses to tell Sherlock the very important things, the things he should tell but doesn’t because he is trying, in his own way, to protect his baby brothers. But he tells John, anyway, because John knows how to tell Sherlock without breaking him, and knows how to pull Sherlock past the darkness.

“John, you haven’t seen Quintin around, have you?”

“We haven’t seen him since he came for dinner last week. He said he was busy on Monday, so we didn’t bother calling. Why?” Mycroft’s face tightens, and John would say  _ blame _ but Mycroft never feels guilty about anything, so what can this be?

“He’s gone missing.”

_ Oh. _

The way John deals with fear and uncertainty is remarkable. He looks it in the face, then calmly continues about his business, whatever that may be. He calls Sherlock, tells him to come home as soon as he can, something’s come up and it’s big, and he calls Susan to say he’ll need time off at the surgery. He cancels his appointments with his women amid a flurry of apologies, saying only  _ family needs me _ and hanging up. Mycroft sits on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea, watching John. John doubts Mycroft has ever lost Quintin before, and John suspects it is related to Mycroft and Q’s line of work. He pities Mycroft at that moment, but John carries on. He knows Mycroft has already put his men on the job, and he knows that as soon as anything is found, the mask will slip back on, and the ice-man would return. But not now, now it’s living, breathing Mycroft, who needs to talk and John sees no harm in letting him, so when Mycroft opens his mouth, John gets his own cup of tea, and sits in Sherlock’s chair (all angles, much like the man), facing him. 

“When they were younger, it was always my job to take care of them,” he starts, and though John’s heard stories from Sherlock, he supposes Mycroft sees things differently. “Mother and Father were too busy doing whatever it was they did, and then we were sent to boarding school. The summers we went home, I had to watch them and make sure they didn’t get hurt and that they were clean for dinner. Once I was ten, and Sherlock and Quintin were being difficult, and I couldn’t get them ready in time...” Here he pauses, and rolls his cup in his hand. “Then Father died, and Mother remarried and was too busy for us. I was in university then, and they were still children, but I knew I had to take care of them then. I tried my best, but still Sherlock found drugs, and Q broke into places and eventually I ended up here and I thought ‘good, okay, I can keep them safe here.’ but I can’t.” John simply looks at Mycroft. What is there to say, besides cheap words of comfort? 

“You’ve done fine by us, Mycroft,” comes a low voice from behind John. Mycroft looks up. “You always have, and though your meddling is annoying, it is on occasion, useful.” Sherlock walks into the room, and takes John’s chair. (He’ll categorize the meaning of this later, because with John everything and nothing is deliberate and Sherlock wants to miss  _ nothing _ but now John has the worried look that means he’ll ask to hold Sherlock’s hand or maybe a hug and this pleases Sherlock, that John takes comfort in him, but  _ pleased is not good right now _ so Sherlock squashes it down.) “Now either say what you want or get out. John has something to tell me, and by the looks of it, he’s worried, so I’d appreciate-”

“Sherlock.”

“-you leaving. Yes, John?”

“Mycroft stays.”

“Why? He’s not involved in our business.”

“Sherlock, please.”

“I don’t see why-” Sherlock begins to protest, but John’s voice gets the edge that means  _ Bad Sherlock _ so he stops.

“Your brother’s gone missing.”

_ Oh. _

Sherlock seems to sag in his chair.

“You’re sure.” Statement.

“Yes.”

“I’ll need everything you know.”

“You’re assuming I’ll let you help find him.”

“Of course you will. He’s my brother too.”

“It’s dangerous, Sherlock. I don’t even know who took him, though I have an idea.”

“I can find him.”

“No.”

“Mycroft.”

“I said no, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft!” 

“I am not risking both my brothers.”

“I won’t go after them alone.”

“You’ve promised that before.” John, knowing that eventually Mycroft will allow Sherlock to help, wanders to the kitchen. He calls Mycroft’s wife, and invites her over for dinner, since Sherlock and Mycroft will go back and forth for at least another hour. She accepts, and John sets to work cooking. He likes cooking, the rhythm and the smells, and he lets his mind wander to his flatmate, and how he had been planning to propose marriage on Christmas. Sherlock hates ceremony, would kill John if he made it seem carefully planned, yet would be secretly hurt if it wasn’t, and John had almost figured out how he was going to ask, but now he would have to wait. That was fine. They had all the time in the world. Finding Q was much more important.

The voices die down from the living room, but John leaves them be. Family needs time, and as much a part of the brothers’ lives he may be, he is not family yet. Worry prickles him, too, for Q, a boy he’s grown fond of, much like an uncle will of a nephew. Quintin is smart and funny, and hopelessly in love with that Bond man, who kissed him (oh, yes, John saw, but he knew how to keep secrets better than Mycroft) at the party, and now Q was missing and John hopes against what he fears most. He hopes for Q to be alive, and well, and to come home, because to John, there is always hope. 

James Bond, upon learning that his quartermaster is missing, is a strange and different man. He breaks things. He spends days at the range, shooting at targets that don’t shoot back, and he refuses missions. He requests an audience with M, who happens to call in Mycroft, and demands to be allowed to go on the retrieval mission for Q, whenever that may be.

“Why, Bond,” Mycroft drawls plummily, knowing how to hide who and what he is ( _ worried brother, guilty brother, bad brother _ ), “is this sentiment?”

James Bond, who prides himself on a quick turn of phrase and sharp wit, surprises even himself with the honesty of his answer.

“Why yes, sir. It is.”


	2. uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for Q begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm reposting my work, etc.

It is dark, and Quintin is afraid. 

His hands are bound above him, and though he’s slumped seated against a wall, the position still stretches and strains him. The cloth over his eyes, he guesses, is the same that’s been shoved into his mouth, a foul, filthy rag that tastes slightly of oil and has the texture of an old tee-shirt. It probably is an old tee-shirt, Q thinks in despair. I’m going to die with an old rag of a shirt in my mouth.  _ Hysterics. Bad. Focus, Quintin. Sherlock and Mycroft are probably looking for you right now.  _

But he didn’t tell anyone where he was going, so how would they know?

_ Mycroft has cameras everywhere _ , a voice that sounds remarkably like Sherlock answers.

But would Mycroft find him in time? 

The Sherlock-voice has no answer, just as Q expects.

_ That’s what I thought. _ Q breathes in through his nose, trying to gather his thoughts. 

The wall behind him is stony and rough and cool, and Q leans his head back against it, trying not to cry. He’s scared and hurt and tired and he doesn’t know how he got here, or if he’ll ever get out and it’s all a bit overwhelming for him and his eyes start to water but he closes them more firmly against the cloth and thinks about James and his blue eyes and steady head.

_ His  _ James, who has been in this situation a thousand times, James who would know what to do, who would focus on making a plan rather than being a silly weeping sack, and Q screws his courage to the sticking place and knows if he wants to survive he must be James in this moment, must possess the sure calmness and boldness of his agent, and so he swallows down his tears and his fear and  _ thinks _ .

Judging by the feeling of his bladder(still fairly empty) and the moistness of his mouth he hasn’t been unconscious long, only enough to be dragged here and restrained. He’s still in fairly good shape, too, so either the men who grabbed him (from behind, his head aches dreadfully and he suspects he’s bled a bit) are under orders to not hurt him, or, Q shivers as this thought runs through his head, they’re saving it for later.He hastily shoves that idea away. 

Footsteps, faint but approaching, perk his interest and as Q sits in the dark, bound, terrified beyond belief, he does something that he hasn’t since he was a tiny child and his nanny put him to bed every night. Quintin begins to pray.

  
  


“Well, Mycroft, do you have any idea who took him?”

“We have reason to believe it’s the work of a drug gang that his agent had broken into a few weeks before. We had Quintin hack in. We didn’t think they posed any threat but-”

“You miscalculated.”

“It was a mistake, Sherlock.”

“You seem to have a habit of playing with your brothers’ lives, Mycroft,” John interrupts. “And they’re not toys.”

“Dr. Watson, I hardly see what your concern is, since I happen to have quite a bit more information on the situation.”

“Obviously not enough, because Q’s been taken by some crazed criminals.” John is angry. He is bristling in anger, and Sherlock thinks  _ John is strong and brave and righteously angry and I would very much not like to lose him  _ and his heart tightens, momentarily, with fear. Sherlock is rarely afraid, and now, he asks himself, am I afraid they will take John?  _ Yes.  _ Am I afraid they will try to take me, and leave John alone, worried and scared and pretending he will be all right?  _ Yes. _

“That will be all, Dr. Watson.” Mycroft’s vice tightens and John takes a step back and breathes. His fists are clenched and he relaxes them, deliberately. He is worried and scared but blame will not help get to Q, and so he turns and sits, deliberately, in his own chair, and crosses his arms. “My men are will find him soon, and we will get him out. I can assure you of that.” The men glare at each other, but it is less hostile than before. Sherlock, sensing John could use a touch, gently steps behind him and lays a hand on his shoulder. He’s not fond of touching, really, but this is John, and all right, because John needs him, needs this, and Sherlock can do that. John relaxes slightly under his hand, and gently reaches up and covers it with his own. 


	3. dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is unconscious, having been kidnapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually cut most of this chapter because I didn't like it so this is what's left.

_ James is standing in the doorway to Q’s office, smiling. He’s dressed in a rumpled sweater and jeans, casual off-duty clothes that remind Q suspiciously of his own wardrobe.  _

_ “Well, come in,” Q says, not looking. He knows who it is, from the feeling of the eyes alone. “I can’t have you standing there, distracting me. This is a very delicate procedure, and, oh-” he breaks off suddenly as a pair of hands settle on his hips, and suddenly a voice is whispering in his ear of unspeakable things and Q is blushing and trying to concentrate, but he gives up and arches back against the man behind him. James spins him around, and Q is backed up against his desk, and James is still smiling that little half-smile that says he knows Q, wants to have Q inside-out and babbling mindlessly and Q thinks that he’s never seen such a beautiful sight in his life. He lifts his hands off Q’s hips and they’ve covered in blood, and Q screams, again and again _ . 

He will continue to scream until he wakes up, and when he does, his throat will be raw and bloody and maybe Q will make it back into unconsciousness, into pleasanter dreams, or perhaps not.


	4. to be bond is to be broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> same note: reposting old work

Bond knew he would be assigned a new Quartermaster. He’d gone through three in the last few months, each angrier and angrier about his use of equipment. He’d spoiled their best watches, torn their tiny wired devices, exploded their favorite guns, and eventually they’d refused to work with him.

M had told him  _ stop antagonizing them, Bond  _ and  _ for God’s sake man, can’t you return something in one piece _ but Bond laughed and answered that he had come back in one piece and shouldn’t that be all right?

Oh, sure, he slept with some of his Quartermasters as well, the needy ones, mostly women with kind hearts (although he didn’t mind the male ones, with their need to be consumed) because it was easy and comfortable with them, and they never turned him away from their bed. He never let it get messy, get past anything but hot mouths and aching bodies because he was James Bond and he knew what that meant. James Bond meant dying alone, meant sleeping with people you didn’t love, eating meals that were badly cooked, waking up screaming but there was no gentle touch to soothe and guide back to sleep, a cold bed and a single tumbler of whiskey (emptied) waiting to be washed.

When he had been assigned to the young man sitting next to him, he’d insulted him, blindly, bored of the games and hoping this one would be interesting, and he was not disappointed. The witty reply made James smirk, and he knew this Quartermaster ( _ Q, Quintin,) _ could handle him just fine. 

James sees the symphony Q builds for him, if he doesn’t say anything it means merely that he doesn’t love his Quartermaster. He is James Bond, after all, and this means that he is immune to love, hardened like granite. He feels in his ear the sharpness of Q’s tongue as he guides him, and the relief that washes over Q when he saunters in, bloody and broken, and he knows, as the wolf does, that the prey is ready and willing to be caught. But he does not move in, and this is what surprises James. He does not, one night, stay late and sneak up behind Q, and cup the Quartermaster’s sharp hips in his blunt hands, does not whisper naughty things in his ear, does not taste the hollow behind his ear or the curve of his neck or catch the scent of his hair. Instead he drinks more and broods and whispers  _ completely harmless _ as he imagines black hair and glasses smiling about a love-swollen mouth and more bare skin below and his throat catches and he forcibly shoves the image away because James Bond does not make love, does not think love, does not love. James Bond takes and breaks and destroys things, he fucks them, he intentionally returns from missions half blown up because he finds meaning in the simpleness of a fist against a face or a knife between ribs not in kisses stolen in the morning or waking up to another body huddled against his. There is beauty in breaking things that can be fixed.


End file.
